“A bottle of good wine, senyora?” he called, but she shook her head and walked away.
A few minutes later, two men bought squid and ate it while standing there.
“A good bottle of wine?” Josep called, and they sauntered to the wagon.
“How much?” asked one of them, still chewing.
When Josep told them, the man swallowed and shook his head. “Too high,” he said, and he and his companion turned away.
“Have a taste before you go.”
Josep unwrapped a bottle and reached for his corkscrew. He poured the wine carefully into each cup, about one-quarter the amount of a normal small serving of wine.
The men accepted the cups and drank, two slow swallows.
“Good,” one of them said grudgingly.
His friend grunted.
They looked at one another.
“We might each take a bottle, give us a lower price.”
Josep smiled but shook his head. “No, I can’t.”
“Then…” the man shrugged, and his companion shook his head as he handed the cups back.
Frederic Fuxá had been watching from his booth, and he winked grimly at Josep: See? Did I tell you?
“Now you can do your job,” Josep said to Francesc, and the boy beamed and sloshed the used cups in the pail of water.
At the end of an hour they had given out four more samples but made no sales, and Josep was beginning to wonder if selling the wine in a marketplace was a plan that was going to work.
But the first two men who had sampled the wine wandered back.
“It was good but I can’t be certain,” one of them said. “I need another little swallow.”
“Ah, I’m sorry. I am able to give only one sample to each customer,” Josep said.
“But…afterwards we might buy your wine.”
“No. I’m truly sorry.”
The man looked annoyed, but his companion said, “It’s nothing. I’m going to buy a bottle now.”
The first man sighed. “I will take one also,” he said finally.
Josep handed over two newspaper-wrapped bottles and accepted their money with unsteady hands, feeling the blood rushing to his face. He was accustomed to a lifetime in which his family produced wine that was picked up by Clemente in a fixed, unremarkable routine. But this was the very first time that someone had bought his wine as a matter of choice, paying their money to him because he had made a vintage they desired.
“Thank you, senyores. I hope you enjoy my wine,” he said.
Frederic Fuxá had been listening from his booth and came to the wagon to congratulate Josep. “Your first sale of the day. “But do you mind if I give you some advice?”
“Of course not.”
“My brother and I have been coming here nineteen years. We are fishermen. Everything we cook at the market we have taken from the sea ourselves. Everyone knows us, and we don’t have to prove our seafood is fresh and good. But you are new to the market. People here don’t know you, so what harm in giving someone a second sample of your wine?”
“I can only give away two of these bottles,” Josep said. “I must sell every one of the rest of them or I am in terrible trouble.”
Fuxá pursed his lips. As a businessman he understood the situation without another word.
“I would like to taste your wine myself, senyor.”
Josep poured into both cups. “Take one to your brother.”
Frederic bought two bottles and Efrén Fuxá, one.
Half an hour later, two men and a woman came to the food stand.
“Hola to the Bocabellas. How is it where you are today? Are you selling much?” Efrén asked.
“Not bad,” the woman said. “How about you?”
Efrén pursed his lips and nodded.
“We hear someone is giving tastes of wine,” one of the men said.
Frederic pointed at Josep’s wagon. “Truly fine. We just bought it for our Easter wine.”
They came over and claimed their samples. The woman smacked her lips. “Very nice. But our Oncle makes wine.”
“Aaargh. Oncle doesn’t makes wine you would drink when he’s not with you,” one of the men said, and the three of them laughed. They each bought a bottle.
Frederic watched them walk away. “That was a fortunate sale. They are cousins, vegetable farmers, an important family in Sitges, and born talkers. They take turns every market day to visit other vendors and exchange gossip. They’ll mention your wine to a number of people.”
In the next hour half a dozen people tasted the wine without buying. Then two venders came at the same time, and another arrived while the first two were tasting the wine. Josep had noticed that shoppers at the market tended to stop where there were already people, perhaps out of a human need to investigate something that others found desirable. That worked now, for a short line of shoppers gathered behind the vendors, and the line didn’t disappear for several hours.
By midafternoon, when he and Francesc managed to eat their lunch of bread and chorizo, Josep had changed the rinsewater twice and finally had emptied the bucket. Despite his edict barring second helpings, he had used up the two bottles of sample wine while nine bottles remained unsold. But by that time word of mouth about the presence of a wine vendor at the market had done its work, and he sold his last bottle by late afternoon, several hours before the market’s closing. He bought Francesc a victory plate of squid, and while the boy ate, Josep visited a vender of second-hand objects and found four empty wine bottles.
On the way home Francesc sat in his lap, and Josep showed him how to hold the reins. Francesc fell asleep while driving. For half an hour Josep drove with the skinny little form plastered against his chest, then Francesc woke long enough to be transferred, and for the rest of the trip home he slept on the blankets in the back of the wagon, next to the empty bottles.
That Sunday the attorney drove his gray horse into the vineyard again, and this time Donat was with him.
The attorney sat in the trap and did not look at Josep, who noted a leather case on the seat. Doubtless, he thought, it contained papers they would have served him while taking possession of the land for nonpayment.
His brother greeted him nervously. “Do you have the money, Josep?”
“I do,” he said quietly.
He had the sum all counted out and waiting for them, and he brought from the house papers of his own, individual receipts for each of the two payments he had missed, and a third receipt for the payment due that day. He handed his papers to Donat, who read them quickly and handed them to the man in the trap. “Carles?”
The attorney read them. Undoubtedly he was disappointed, but his face was carefully without expression.
Donat’s face, however, unmistakenly contained relief as he accepted and counted the money. Josep brought pen and ink, and Donat signed the three receipts.
“I’m sorry about all the fuss, Josep,” he said, but Josep didn’t reply.
Donat turned away and moved toward the trap, but then he stopped and came back.
“She is not a mean woman. I know it looks as though she is. It is only that at times she is overcome by our situation.” Josep saw that Rosa’s cousin did not like apologies; his disapproving face was no longer blank.
“Goodbye, Donat,” Josep said, and his brother nodded and climbed into the seat next to Carles Sert.
Josep stood by his house and watched them go away. It was odd, he thought, how it was possible to feel good and bad at the same time.
50
A Decision
Eduardo Montroig took castelling competitions very seriously, and the atmosphere at the practice sessions of the Santa Eulália castellers grew very businesslike, with less bantering and more work to perfect balance, rhythm, and the precision of their tasks.
Eduardo had a good deal of information about the Sitges castellers, who were very experienced and accomplished, and he had become convinced that Santa Eulália could win the competition only if it co
uld add something special to its castell. He designed a new element for their structure, which required more frequent and more vigorous practices for the village team, and he cautioned his castellers that it must be kept secret so it would be a surprise when it was unveiled in Sitges.
Maria del Mar brought her son to several of the practices, and then Josep suggested that he could bring Francesc, since he was going anyway, and she agreed gladly.
For Josep the high point of each practice was the moment when Francesc clambered over three tiers of men and ended up on his back long enough to whisper his name into his ear. Francesc dreamed of the day when he would be able to climb over many tiers of men and youths and reach the top of the assembled castell to raise his arm in triumph. Josep worried about him, because a small frail boy would be particularly vulnerable in the event that a castell should collapse. But Eduardo was bringing Francesc along slowly, and Josep knew that Eduardo was steady and sensible, a man who did not take unnecessary risks.
One day, without comment or fuss, Eduardo reached the end of his mourning period and removed the black bands from the sleeves of his clothing. He retained his calm dignity, but the people of the village noticed a change, if not a lightness than at least an easing of his personality, and they told each other wryly that soon Eduardo would be looking about for a new wife.
Several evenings later, Josep was pruning vines when he saw Eduardo walking down the road. He paused in his work with pleasure, for he enjoyed the prospect of a visit. But to his surprise, Eduardo merely lifted a hand in greeting and continued to walk past.
There was nothing on the lane beyond Josep’s land except Maria del Mar’s house and vineyard.
Josep busied himself with his vines, keeping an eye on the road.
He waited a long time. It was dusk when he saw Eduardo making his way back.
Francesc was keeping him company as he walked down the lane, Josep observed.
“Bona tarda, Josep!” Eduardo called.
“Bona tarda, Josep!” Francesc echoed.
“Bona tarda, Eduardo. Bona tarda, Francesc,” he answered heartily, his knife cutting too swiftly and almost blindly, doing damage to a perfectly sound vine.
He lay awake most of the night, staring into darkness.
Well, he must feel happy for Maria del Mar, he tried to tell himself.
Several times she had spoken to him about the kind of man she dreamed might some day come into her life. Someone who was gentle and who would treat her with kindness. A steady man who would not run away. Someone who was a good worker, someone who would be a good father to her son.
In short…serious Eduardo Montroig. Perhaps not a man with a sense of humor, but a good person and a community leader, a man with standing in the village.
In the morning Josep returned to his pruning chores, yet desperation and fury was rising within him as relentlessly as an ocean tide, and midmorning he dropped the knife and strode to her vineyard.
She was nowhere in sight on her land, and he struck the door.
When she opened it, he didn’t answer her greeting.
“I want to share your life. In every way.”
She looked at him with astonishment.
“I…have the strongest feelings for you. The strongest feelings!” Now she understood, he saw. Her mouth quivered—was she stifling laughter at him, he thought, panicking—and she closed her eyes.
He went on, his voice breaking, no more able to control his emotions or his words than a bull in the midst of a clumsy charge straight at the point of the sword. “I admire you. I want to work with you every day and sleep with you every night. Every night, and never again to fuck as if we were each just doing a favor for a friend. I want to share your son, who also has my love. I will give you other children. I want to fill your belly with children.
“I offer you half of my two sections. They have debt, but both are valuable, as you know.
“I need you. Mirimar, I need you and I want you to be my wife.”
She was very pale. He saw she was summoning strength, gathering herself to destroy him. There was moisture in her eyes, but her voice was steady when she answered him.
“Oh, Josep…Of course.”
He had steeled himself for refusal, and at first he couldn’t accept the words.
“You must calm yourself, Josep. Of course I want you. Surely you must know that,” she said.
Her mouth trembled as she smiled at him, and for the rest of his life he would never be able to decide whether her smile of tenderness also contained the gleam of victory.
51
Plans
He held both her hands in his, unable to let her go, and covered her face with the kind of kisses given to a woman by a cherishing father or brother. What such kisses said to her was new, which made them exciting, though when his mouth found hers there was no doubt that they kissed as lovers.
“We must go to the priest,” she said faintly. “I want you somehow bound to me before you come to your senses and run far away.” But her smile told him she wasn’t worried over that possibility.
Padre Pio was not surprised when he learned they wanted to marry.
“Where were you baptized?”
He was pleased when they both told him it had been in the church he now served as pastor.
“Is there any need for haste?” he asked Maria del Mar, not dropping his gaze below her face.
“No, Padre.”
“Good. Some in the Church believe that whenever it is possible, an engagement between rigorous Catholics should last a full year,” the priest said.
Maria del Mar was silent. Josep grunted and shook his head slowly. He met Padre Pio’s gaze without defiance but without timidity.
The priest shrugged. “When the marriage involves a widow, so long an engagement is not so important,” he said coolly. “But we are already two-thirds into Lent. Easter Sunday is April 2. Between now and the end of Easter week we shall be in our most solemn period of prayer and contemplation—not a period in which I am willing to celebrate an engagement or a wedding.”
“When shall you be able to marry us then?” Josep asked.
“I can post the banns after Easter week.…Suppose we agree that you are to be married on the last Saturday in April?” Padre Pio said.
Maria del Mar frowned. “That brings us to the season when the springtime work
in the vineyard is at its heaviest. I don’t want us to leave work to be wed and then hurry back to the vines.”
“When would you prefer?” Padre Pio asked.
“The first Saturday in June,” she said.
“You understand that between now and then you two are not to dwell together or engage in relations as man and wife?” he said sternly.
“Yes, Padre,” Maria del Mar said. “Is that date all right?” she asked Josep.
“If that is what you wish,” Josep said to her.
He was experiencing something totally unfamiliar to him, and with a shock, he recognized it as joy.
But when they were alone again, they faced the fact that the waiting period was going to be difficult. They embraced chastely.
“June 2 is ten weeks away. A long time.”
“I know.”
She cast a glance at Francesc, playing with some round stones in the dust at their feet, and moved closer so she could speak into Josep’s ear.
“I think Francesc could do well with a small one to keep his eyes on while we are working, no?”
“I agree. I would like to start another child at once.”
As they looked at one another, he allowed himself thoughts he would not share with the priest.
Perhaps she was having similar thoughts. “I think that for now we should not spend a great deal of time together,” she said. “It will be best if we limit temptation, or we will surely be carried away, and we must go to confession before the wedding.”
He agreed reluctantly, knowing she was right.
“What is the word for when people of wealth p
lace money into a business?” she said.
He was puzzled. “An investment?”
She nodded; that was the word. “The waiting will be our investment,” she said.
Josep liked Eduardo Montroig and wanted to treat him with respect. He walked to Eduardo’s vineyard that afternoon and told him quietly and plainly that he and Maria del Mar had been to the priest and had made plans to be married.
Eduardo was betrayed by the briefest of frowns, but he stroked his long chin, and his plain face was warmed by a rare smile. “She will make a fine wife. I wish both of you all good fortune,” he said.
Josep told the news to only one other person, Nivaldo, with whom he drank a toast in honor of the news. Nivaldo was very pleased.
52
A Contest in Sitges
The Sunday following Easter, Josep and Marimar sat in church with Francesc between them, and listened to Padre Pio.
“I publish the banns of marriage between Josep Alvarez of this parish and the widow Maria del Mar Orriols of this parish. If any of you know just impediment why these persons should not be joined together in Holy Matrimony, you are to declare it.
“This is the first time of asking.”
He had placed the banns on the church door and would read them for two more Sundays, after which they would be formally engaged.
After the service, while the priest stood at the church door greeting his congregants and Francesc sat on the bench in front of the grocery eating a sausage, Josep and Marimar stood in the placa and received the good wishes, embraces, and kisses of their fellow villagers.
Josep used a steady diet of labor to fill his life during the long and impatient days of the engagement. He finished the vines and returned to his work in the cellar, completing three-quarters of the stone retaining wall by the first Friday in April, the day of the castelling tournament. He had haunted marketplaces and had found thirty more wine bottles. Washed, filled with dark wine, and labeled, they were wrapped in newspaper sheets and stowed on blankets in the back of the wagon, sharing the space with Francesc. Marimar sat next to Josep as he drove to the marketplace in Sitges.